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  "It's not that. It's him I'm worried about." He nodded up the mountainside at the fortress-like laboratory precariously nestled into the cliff. Moonlight glinted eerily from its gray stone walls, windowless and foreboding.

  "Who, Bubba?" Zamara asked, her coarse voice trailing up at the end.

  Rusty nodded weakly.

  "My ex-husband will be too busy to even notice we're there. We'll sneak in, get my grandmother's china, and sneak out. I know that place like the back of my paw."

  "Maybe I should stay here. I'm just slowing you down ..."

  Zamara licked the bridge of Rusty's nose. "You're so adorable when you snivel." As she nipped gently at the waistband of Rusty's pants, a twinge of pain surged through her. The fur on her back crested as she felt a tick gnawing at her skin. Mind over matter, mind over matter, she chanted to herself, intent on maintaining her poise. But that little parasite bored deeper, and Zamara couldn't help herself. She feverishly scratched behind her ear with her hind foot.

  "You know, it's nothing to be embarrassed about," Rusty cooed, seeming sincere, but he had a knack for saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. All heart and no filter.

  "Not a word, you hear me?" Zamara lifted her top lip to reveal a row of porcelain Ginsu knives that gleamed in the light of the full moon. Technically, they were classified as teeth.

  Zamara felt Rusty's eyes running over the rigid contours of her Changed form, assessing her. He jutted his chin. "I reckon ol' Doc Peterson could set you straight with some of that prescription K9 Advantix stuff, no questions asked. What do you weigh, about a buck fifty–"

  Before he could finish his sentence, Zamara had Rusty pinned to a boulder, his back arching in a near-perfect parabola. "I am not a dog. I do not need a vet."

  "Course not! I didn't say that, did I?"

  "And you never ask a woman her weight. Never!"

  Zamara gnashed her teeth and resisted the urge to lick away the froth forming along her muzzle, ropes of drool hovering an inch above Rusty's nose. His Adam's apple kicked around excitedly in his exposed throat. Rusty wasn't the ideal candidate for a mate, but in the months following her divorce, Zamara had discovered that the pool of single, gainfully employed, straight men had dwindled down to just about nothing. Most days she'd settle for two out of the three. Add being open to inter-species dating to the criteria, and the only man on Match.com within a hundred miles of Alpine, Texas had been Rusty.

  "I'm just sayin'," Rusty pleaded, "that Ol' Doc has worked wonders for my Whinny–"

  "I don't want to hear another word about that goat of yours, either!"

  Rusty stifled a squeal. The blended scent of fear and arousal seeped from his pores and played cruel tricks in Zamara's mind. A welcome tightness curled through her abdomen and resonated like a plucked string. Being a werewolf was tough, but being a middle-aged divorcée without a reliable date on Friday nights was tougher. Talk about being hot under the collar.

  She tugged at the elastic of Rusty's undershorts, revealing more of his cinnamon-colored hair. She'd never seen a human so well covered! That ex of hers had been so fleshy and bare. Jagged memories of her old life overwhelmed her. She tried to put her ex-husband out of her mind, but being up here, secluded a mile above the world, only reminded her of the years she'd wasted, watching from the sidelines as Bubba immersed himself in those ridiculous experiments.

  Choking back the resentment, Zamara let her jaw slack and Rusty's undershorts snapped, dealing him the sting of misplaced vengeance.

  He winced, tears beading up in his eyes. "Did I do something wrong?"

  "I'm not in the mood."

  "But, sweetheart ... " Rusty begged, running his fingers through Zamara's fur.

  She unleashed a menacing growl.

  * * * * *

  As they neared the summit, Zamara could make out the details of the lab, the insanity of its design magnified from this vantage point. Its shape was almost organic in nature, like the skeletal remains of something partially buried then forgotten. The portcullis yawned wide as if it were taunting them to enter through its iron gates.

  "What kind of scientist goes and builds a laboratory on the lip of a dormant volcano anyway?" Rusty asked.

  "The mad kind," Zamara replied.

  Bubba was mad in every sense of the word. She hadn't helped matters any by provoking him during the divorce settlement. Zamara had actually thought she'd heard his blood vessels rupturing when she'd disputed Bubba's claim to his Elvis LPs. She'd gotten them, too.

  Zamara clawed at the lock, then slowly pushed the door open, trying to mute the screech of stubborn hinges. The place was a mess inside, littered with trash and reeking of broken dreams. Bubba hadn't taken the breakup well, but that wasn't her problem any longer. After she'd reclaimed those heirlooms that were rightfully hers, she'd put the last six miserable years behind her for good.

  Zamara opened the china cabinet and her heart collapsed. Half of the place settings were missing. "That dimwit has actually been eating off my plates!" she said as she assessed the dried food remains on the pile of dishes stacked in the sink, then pawed at the faucet. "Pack up what's in the cabinet. I'll soak these."

  "Do we really have time for that?" Rusty asked, his eyes shifting nervously.

  "Just pack the dishes, Rusty," Zamara barked, managing to turn it into a seductive growl. "Pretty please?" She needed Rusty for his opposable thumbs right now, not his bravery. It'd cost a fortune to replace a chipped plate.

  Rusty swallowed, his eyebrows arching like his lotto numbers had hit. Not a second went by and he was at the cabinet, pulling out a gold-rimmed saucer.

  Zamara opened the sterling drawer. It was empty.

  A sharp click echoed behind them. Zamara spun around on her haunches. The barrel of her ex-husband's shotgun was aimed squarely at her chest, but she looked past it and into his appraising eyes. She used to feel naked under his stare. Powerless. That look might have silenced her before, but now she'd harnessed the strength of her inner bitch, pedigree traced back over forty generations. Zamara gnashed her teeth. "Where's my silverware, Bubba?"

  "I knew you'd return eventually. So this must be the wolf you left me for, huh?" Bubba asked, swinging the barrel in Rusty's direction.

  "He's not a werewolf. He's just a little hairy."

  "You've got to be kidding me. He's got a thicker coat than you do!"

  "And how many times do I have to tell you there was no other man. Perhaps if you'd come out of your lab once in a while, you would have noticed how miserable I was. Now, I'm not going to ask you again. Where's my grandmother's silverware?"

  "You'll be getting your silver back soon enough, my pet." Bubba swiveled the shotgun towards Zamara and stroked the barrel with an eerie tenderness. His unkempt hair and patchy beard brought out the glint of madness in his eyes. Zamara's gaze darted from the empty silverware drawer to the shotgun and back. Suddenly, she knew where her sterling was.

  Before she could blink, a flash of reddish-brown came between her and Bubba. "Don't shoot! Take me instead!" Rusty shouted, the stench of reckless bravado steaming from his entire body.

  What chivalry! Not even the tremble in his voice could betray the sincerity of his intentions. Rusty had renewed Zamara's faith in men, just as she was about to tuck her tail and surrender. Sure he had his quirks, but all in all, Rusty might be the one.

  The floor rumbled severely and unexpectedly, causing Zamara to reach out to Rusty for balance. She oozed into his arms–firm and reassuring, and if her ex-husband weren't threatening to fill her with a spray of melted down teaspoons and salad forks, she would have liked to live in this moment forever.

  "It was all split fifty-fifty, but that wasn't good enough for you, now was it, dear?" Bubba said, having to clear his throat to snag Zamara's full attention. "Well, you've already taken more than your share. You stole my heart straight out of my chest, and you're not getting a single thing more from me. Not today. Not ever!" Bubba's scowl loosened as the rumbling int
ensified. China pieces rattled in the cabinets, and the ambient temperature elevated twenty degrees.

  "Bubba, what did you do?"

  Bubba strapped on a devilish smile and lowered his shotgun. "Let's just say this dormant volcano ain't so dormant anymore."

  "Come on, Bubba. Let's talk this through."

  "There's no talking that could make me whole again. Only a virgin sacrifice could stop this puppy from erupting, and I'm afraid I'm fresh out."

  Two teacups dropped from the cabinet like twin bombs, smashing into the floor and spraying the kitchen with porcelain shrapnel.

  "A virgin sacrifice? Really?" Zamara said, raising a skeptical brow.

  "This from a woman who breaks razors on her leg hair?"

  "Touché."

  "Looks like we'll be spending the last moments of our lives together. 'Til death do us part, like it should've been."

  Rusty lowered his eyes and stared at his feet. "Um ... "

  "What is it, Rusty?" Zamara demanded.

  "Well ... "

  "Rusty, what?"

  Rusty's voice quivered with an unsure timbre. "I've never been with a woman."

  "You're a virgin?" Zamara and Bubba screamed simultaneously.

  "Most women are turned off by all of this hair. But I've got to be me, you know? Sure, it was lonely, not having any companions in my life besides Whinny, but I knew the right lady would come along eventually. You're that woman." Rusty wrapped his hand around Zamara's paw and pressed his forehead against hers. "I'd do anything for you."

  * * * * *

  Zamara looked over the edge of the volcano into the molten soup that was pacifying by the second. He'd done it. He'd really done it. Rusty had given his life so that hers would be spared.

  Bubba laid a soft hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

  She pulled away.

  "I know there's nothing I could say that could possibly make things better, but I really am sorry. All of this bitterness ... look where it's gotten us."

  Tears warmed Zamara's face. Bubba sounded sincere, but she'd fallen for his syrupy apologies more times than she cared to admit. She and Bubba had loved each other once, but had neglected their relationship until there was nothing left to salvage. And now an argument over old plates she'd never even used and a scratched up record collection had cost Zamara her one chance at true love.

  Boiling tides of lava began sloshing against the volcano's walls and ash shot from the mouth like a cannon. "Bubba–" Zamara ducked as a fiery rock flew past her head. "I thought you said a virgin sacrifice would stop this thing!" Zamara's mind traced back over her brief relationship with Rusty ... how he'd sounded so unsure when he'd claimed to have never been with a woman – with a subtle emphasis on the "woman." Not to mention his eerie fixation with that goat of his. And come to think of it, what kind of man puts "open to inter-species dating" on his personal profile anyway? "You don't think he and Whinny ... "

  Tiny bits of ash filled the sky, persuading light to perform strange tricks in the atmosphere. Zamara's last earthly thought was of how beautifully blue the moon looked tonight.

  ###

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  EXTREME PIRATES

  BY NICKY DRAYDEN

  First Published by Flash Me Magazine, 2008

  Three times Archibald Smithe had been made to walk the plank, and every time he'd deserved it. Forgetting to batten down the hatches, spilling an entire vat of steaming gruel belowdecks, and once he'd accidentally started a mutiny when he'd taken a few liberties relaying the captain's orders. But never, ever, in Archibald's thirty years of pirating had he experienced a pain this intense.

  "Don't arch your back," the demon wench called, looking down at him as he struggled to stay atop this ball, this instrument of torture. "Keep straight, or I'll have you here all day!"

  Archibald clenched his gut, sweat beading up beneath his beard, and he felt like he was sailing the humid seas again. He could taste the salt in his mouth already. If he passed this test, if this demon wench deemed him fit, he'd be a part of her crew. The Extreme Pirates. She was a lady, sure, but she was tough. In the forty-five minutes since he'd stepped foot into the recruitment office, she'd forced him and a handful of other hopefuls through a strenuous, though somewhat pointless regimen. Being one of the only men present, Archibald liked his odds.

  "Back straight!" she yelled at him. "Feel it in your core! Your anchor. Do you think you have what it takes?"

  "Aye, Captain!" Archibald barked out instinctually. The demon wench's eyes eased into slits, then looked up at the clock on the wall as the hour drew near.

  "Hold it. Hold it. Three. Two. One. Release."

  The recruits all breathed an even sigh. Archibald fell to the floor, the pain within him running the entire length of his existence. He watched the demon wench expectantly as she folded her arms across her chest and paced the room. The others toweled off and sipped from brightly colored jugs, but Archibald couldn't relax. He knew deep in his wretched heart that this was his last chance at pirating again.

  The demon wench approached him with a smile. "You did good. Is this your first time?"

  "Me? Heavens no. I've worked under the greatest. Steward. Knott. Red Beard."

  She gave him a dismissive nod, and started towards the doors in the back. "We'll see you next week then? Same time."

  "Wait ... " He felt the soreness spreading to his nether regions as he hobbled after her. "Next week. Does that mean I'm in?"

  "In?"

  "On your crew. Extreme Pirates, that's what the sign said out front." He pointed at the glass wall. Archibald had never been much good at letters, but even he could make them out, three feet high each and in reverse.

  "Hmmm," she said, hands on her hips. "I guess the ‘l' is a little crooked. But it's Pilates. Extreme Pilates."

  ###

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  BURT'S HOME HYDROPONICS

  BY NICKY DRAYDEN

  Wendy loved telling off door-to-door salesmen as much as the next gal, but something about this old man standing on her porch made her hesitate. She glanced down at the silver unit he was peddling, wishing for once that the "we can't afford it" lie she usually used in this situation wasn't true.

  "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "It's amazing, but there's no way I can squeeze it into the budget." In her hand she held a half-eaten apple, maybe the best she'd ever tasted. She'd seen this contraption – a marvel of modern science no bigger than a kitchen garbage can – dispense this perfect specimen right into her palm.

  The man slumped over like her rejection was a punch to the chest. Poor guy. With his shaggy gray hair and caterpillar eyebrows, he reminded Wendy of her late Grandpa Kearns, hard-working right up to the very end.

  Wendy had been on board for buying this personal hydroponics bay with its ... what did he call it? Bio-accelerated saplings? He said they'd been hand selected and grafted into the inside walls of the canister. It sounded too good to be true, right up until she heard the price. She almost felt guilty enough to give the sample apple back, but instead she took another bite. The sweet juice dripped from her chin. Wendy cast her eyes down to avoid his expectant gaze as she wiped the mess away.

  "You're sure? An apple every day for the rest of your life. Guaranteed," he said, pitching one last time. "One hundred percent organic. No pesticides. Safer for your kids. You've got kids, right?" The man gestured to the neglected skateboard ramp lying on its side at the end of her driveway.

  Wendy nodded, then gave him an apologetic grin. "But eight hundred dollars ..."

  "I understand completely, ma'am. You have to be careful how you invest your money these days. But in case you ever change your mind ..." He slid his wrinkled hand under his lapel, then handed her a business card with a silver apple logo embossed in the corner.

  Wendy closed the door, headed to her kitchen, and watched out the window as the old man wheeled the hydroponics machine down the sidewalk.

  "Who was t
hat?" asked Chuck from the den with the half-hearted concern of a husband engrossed in Saturday morning cartoons.

  "Just a door-to-door salesman."

  The old man was already at her neighbor's house. Evan Cook stood in his doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His body posture went from defensive to interested to captivated. The men shook hands, then the salesman led Evan to a van parked a few houses down. A nagging feeling churned in the back of Wendy's brain. She hoped she wasn't passing up the deal of a lifetime.

  She rummaged through the kitchen junk drawer for a calculator, then crunched the numbers. As she tapped the keypad, her calculations appeared on the backlit screen. Three hundred sixty-five apples a year at a dollar fifty a pound ... the home hydroponics machine would pay for itself in four years. And best of all, she wouldn't have to do anything besides plug it in and let it bestow the gift of fresh fruit.

  Wendy examined the business card. Lifetime Warranty it said. Twenty-four hour customer service. She dialed the toll-free number to calm the doubt lingering in her heart.

  "Burt's Home Hydroponics Customer Service Hotline," said a cheerful voice. "Could I get the serial number for your unit, please?"

  "Umm ..." A wave of embarrassment rushed over Wendy, and she slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  "Chuck!" she yelled, grabbing the apple from the counter and polishing the uneaten portion against her jeans. She ran into the den, struck cold by the eerie glow their fifty-inch flat screen television cast across her husband's face and those of her children. "Chuck, I need the checkbook. I want to buy us a hydroponics machine."

  Her husband's brow arched, though his eyes stayed focused on the television. "How much?"

  "Four hundred dollars," she said, biting her tongue. He'd balk at the real price. There was an old tin can in the back of the cupboard with a couple hundred dollars, and the kids probably had a few twenties in their piggy banks. She'd replace it before they even noticed.